


Off the Record

by manic_intent



Series: Code of Ethics [1]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on trailers, Hatesex, Inspired by Henry Cavill's cheekbones, M/M, No Spoilers, Not sure why I wrote this tbh I think Batfleck got to me after all, Political and social commentary, Speculative fiction, That pre-Canon speculation on the Dawn of Justice trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark had no idea why he had been sent to cover the fundraiser. After all, events like these were usually private affairs, where fortunes were pooled together to be gambled on politics, with the press informed later through leaks, if at all. The Daily Planet hadn’t been the only newspaper invited along: Clark recognised Julie from the New York Times, and Dean from CNN, among others, and they all seemed equally bewildered. Wayne Enterprises, usually notoriously neutral in national politics, was forming a SuperPAC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Record

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t really sure whether to write this fic. I’ve been trying to get some original work published (hence the slow down in fanfic posts… I kind of feel like I’m doing it just to get more rejection in my life). Also, I’m normally wary of getting into a new fandom that has a lot of history and a lot of pre-existing canon. I’m a really lazy person, and I prefer to do my own worldbuilding, which is why my Man of Steel fics were mostly made up. However:
> 
> 1\. Man, that vaguely BDSM “dream” trailer rofl  
> 2\. Wow. Henry Cavill’s cheekbones are unreal 
> 
> So here we go. **TLDR:** I’m unfamiliar with DC’verse and won’t have the attention span to catch up with anything that isn’t the recent films. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

I.

Clark had no idea why he had been sent to cover the fundraiser. After all, events like these were usually private affairs, where fortunes were pooled together to be gambled on politics, with the press informed later through leaks, if at all. The Daily Planet hadn’t been the only newspaper invited along: Clark recognised Julie from the New York Times, and Dean from CNN, among others, and they all seemed equally bewildered. Wayne Enterprises, usually notoriously neutral in national politics, was forming a SuperPAC.

Wayne, unsurprisingly, was late. “Typical,” Julie murmured to Clark, from where they were corralled in the front ranks of the room reserved for the press, near the empty podium. Drinks and snacks were being handed around by efficient, silent wait staff, and Dean was on his second glass of champagne. 

“You’ve been to a Wayne event before?” Clark whispered back. Julie was pushing her forties, dark hair cut short over her head, dressed sleekly in a black pants suit. Like many Chinese women, she was petite, and she looked even tinier standing beside Clark, for all that he had hunched in on himself to look smaller. 

“Third time now.” Julie nodded. She tended to speak in rapid fire. “Interviewed him once as well, he’s very charming. There were interesting times in Gotham. Used to be a big time playboy, trust fund kid - lost his parents at a young age, of course, very sad. But he disappeared around when the Bane matter happened, apparently because of illness, then dropped off the face of the world for years. He’d done it before when he was young. Probably went off to meditate in a temple in Nepal, or whatever the 0.1% do when they have a mid-life crisis.” 

“And now he’s back.” 

“Yeah, in a big way. Wonder who he’s going to back? The Waynes have never been particularly interested in national politics before.” 

“Trump?” Clark suggested, and smiled faintly. 

“Fuck you, Kent, I think I threw up some of that scampi in my mouth.” 

“It won’t be Bernie, since he doesn’t take SuperPAC money,” Clark noted dubiously. He had lived through a few elections now, and had even voted in two, but the latest election cycle had descended rapidly into farce. Sometimes, Clark wished that stopping Zod’s plans hadn’t involved having to destroy the memory-recording of his father. It would have been good to have an insight into the political system of a far more advanced civilisation.

“Probably won’t be Hillary,” Julie added. “Wayne Enterprises owns Gotham City for a reason. It’s got fingers in all the pork available in Gotham and beyond. Corporate loopholes galore, Swiss banks, Cayman Island accounts, the lot. Bruce Wayne’s got one up on Adelson there. He’s not just playing a game of Hotels. He’s playing Monopoly, with a major American city.” 

Clark was on his second glass of champagne and growing bored when the room suddenly grew hushed. A ripple of polite clapping turned into an enthusiastic patter as Bruce Wayne swept briskly towards the podium, in long, confident strides. Clark blinked. The Daily Planet’s photograph of Bruce Wayne was outdated. The Bruce he had seen was a lean, sun-darkened man, handsome, with something lupine in the set of his face, his brilliant smile vapid, somehow, distracted and plastic. This Bruce Wayne looked older, colder, with silver in his hair, his jaw darkened with stubble. He was bulkier now, even in a flatteringly cut gray suit, and unsmiling, and he nodded curtly at the room from behind the podium, long-fingered hands curling tight over the edges. Bruce-the-playboy had been cored away: this new Wayne was startlingly different. Beside him, Clark could sense Julie straightening up, like a hound on the scent. 

“Good evening everyone,” Bruce said evenly, silencing the last of the clapping in the room. “Welcome. Yes, I’m really Bruce Wayne. No, despite what you might have read in the New York Times, I haven’t been living in a monastery in Nepal all this time.” He glanced pointedly at Julie, who grinned sharply back at him as laughter rippled through the room, people relaxing, clapping again. Clark wasn’t sure why. _Bruce_ was smiling, but his eyes were hard, like flint. 

“I’m here today with a few of my friends to declare the launch of our SuperPAC. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on your opinion, in elections, money talks. Maybe it hasn’t been talking as loudly as it used to. But we’ll see how loud $150 million dollars can be.” Gasps whispered through the room, along with more laughter. “And I suppose you’re all dying to know what the SuperPAC is called…”

“Who’s your candidate!” Someone shouted from the back of the room. 

Bruce smirked. “That? Is that important? Ah, you know us billionaires, we like to back people who drop out long before they even get nominated. I was thinking, Jeb Bush. Is he still in the running? Hard to keep track, there’s so many of them.” More laughter, but Bruce had stopped smiling, and Clark realized that he was holding his own breath. He could see where this was going now. 

“The name of the SuperPAC is Remembrance,” Bruce added quietly, when the laughter died down. “Five thousand and twenty-one people died on American soil three years ago. Almost all of them were civilians. Over a thousand first responders to the scene have died since, from complications suffered from trying to reach survivors. The toxins from the buildings that collapsed have been linked to spiking cancer rates in the area.” 

Beside him, Julie was typing furiously into her phone, scooping soundbites, as were all the other reporters within range that Clark could see. He knew that he should be doing the same. Send the mothership an email, at the least. But he was frozen to the spot; he felt like he was at the end of a tunnel, accelerating away, sound growing dimmer all about him. _It wasn’t my fault_. 

“The last time an attack of such magnitude occurred on American soil, we went to war,” Bruce said flatly. “History knows now how mishandled that was. But still, we went. Three years ago I lost a thousand of my employees. Many of them, I never knew personally. Some, I had the honour of knowing as friends. A _thousand people_ ,” he said, his tone growing uneven, for a moment. “And still only a fraction of all that we lost. I was _there_ … I watched Wayne Tower fall. And now we venerate one half of the reason it fell, one half of the reason why the Eureka skyscraper was levelled-”

 _It was Zod,_ Clark wanted to say, as Bruce listed out each disaster zone, the name of each wrecked building; but Julie was nodding, and Clark could see the headlines. _Wayne takes a Stand_ , perhaps. _Superman Compared to Terrorists._ The damage would be done. 

“Remembrance was formed to support whichever candidate comes up with the best policy to address the sentient natural disaster in our ranks,” Bruce continued. “That is all. May I introduce to you all Jamie Curtis, the director of Remembrance, who will be available to take your questions.”

II.

Clark snuck out early. He knew that Perry would be pissed, but it wasn’t as though Bruce Wayne was in the vicinity, and Clark had already sent a recording of the whole thing to the mothership. Let whoever was holding the fort at night do the scoop: Clark was no longer in the mood. He wanted to go home, change, and go flying. Head somewhere with nobody around, the North Pole, perhaps, and stay there until he felt less sickened.

As such, he was a little annoyed when a black car pulled up at the sidewalk next to him the moment he was outside the building, the tinted back passenger window scrolling down. 

It was Bruce Wayne. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet?” Bruce inquired. There was something sharp in his smile, almost predatory.

“That’s me. Uh. Mister Wayne.” 

“Get in.” When Clark hesitated, astonished, Bruce gestured impatiently. “Hurry up, before your colleagues get wind of it.” 

Puzzled, Clark got into the car. The window scrolled up, and whoever was in the driver’s seat, obscured from view by the tinted glass, pulled the car away into traffic. “Did you uh, need something, Mister Wayne?”

“Bruce, please,” Bruce said dismissively, and his sharp smile widened. “You could say that. Your cheekbones. They’re unreal.” 

“Sorry, what,” Clark stared. “You want to talk to me about my cheekbones?” 

Bruce laughed. There was little of the bitterness in him from before, and none of the wintry anger… or so it seemed. Bruce’s heart rate was elevated, his eyes a little dilated. He was running off adrenaline. “That’s what I get for being out of practice. Off the record… Kent, you’re gorgeous, I have nothing else to do in Metropolis for the rest of the night, and I have a very nice penthouse suite in the Athenaem. You’re welcome, of course, to decline, and I can drop you off here, or wherever you want.”

“Uh…” Clark coughed. His ears felt warm, which meant that he was probably blushing. Bruce smirked. 

“Girlfriend?”

“No.” Lois hadn’t worked out after all. 

“Boyfriend?” 

“Not that either. I thought _you_ were, with, that is, seeing Alicia Vikander?” 

“I’m twice her age,” Bruce archly pulled a face. “Make me feel old all over again, why don’t you.” 

Clark was still murmuring feeble apologies by the time the car started to slow, and Bruce leaned over, hand braced on the seat beside Clark’s hip, an inch and forever away. “Last chance,” Bruce said softly, and he seemed amused, darkly so: in the dull light from the streetlamps, his eyes glittered, and his throat was caught in harsh shadows. There was something hungry in his pale, tense face, sharp-edged, like a blade freshly whetted. Was it death that had changed Bruce Wayne, all that death? If so, Clark found that he was _sorry_ about it after all. He should have lured Zod somewhere safer. He should have- 

“All right.” The concession felt more like bowing towards the inevitable, the taste sour in his mouth. He tried humour. “Is this off the record, or an exclusive?” 

Bruce’s smirk was back, as he rapped the driver’s pane lightly. The car picked up speed again, moving down a ramp. “Whatever you like.”

III.

The ’suite’ was several times the size of Clark’s modest apartment, and was actually two levels, with a ground floor and a mezzanine. Part of the ground floor was a manicured garden, with a pool that fed out to the very edge of the building, rimmed with glass; the pool looked like it ran out all the way to the horizon. Someone, probably not Bruce, had chosen furniture in white and black and gray, mahogany and glass and steel. It was as forensically beautiful as a magazine spread, and Clark would bet that the steel fridge was empty. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the marble kitchen top, though, whose sole purpose seemed to exist purely to give a dash of colour to the white marble and black mahogany cabinets.

Bruce had wandered over to the bar by the large tv on the wall. “Drink?” 

“No thanks,” Clark was peering up the corkscrew oak stairs to the mezzanine floor. “Wow. This place is _huge_. It’s bigger than the editorial floor at the Daily Planet.” 

Bruce chuckled, pouring himself a shot of whisky. “This? This is nothing. I hardly use it, actually. Looking to rent? I could give you a good rate.”

“I couldn’t possibly…” Clark trailed off when Bruce started to smirk, his ears warming up again. Teasing was still a little difficult to parse, somedays. “You um, don’t visit Metropolis often?” 

“Not overnight. Short hop here and back, that’s what I prefer.” 

“You’re probably busy with your company,” Clark said vaguely, having never really understood how corporations worked. 

“It runs itself nowadays. That’s the whole point of having a board of directors. Did come close to bankruptcy once, but that’s all over and done with. Good life experience.” 

“Julia thinks you went to Nepal to ‘find yourself’.”

“I’ve been to Nepal,” Bruce agreed, “But a long time before, when I was young enough to trek around mountains without pulling muscles I never thought I had.” He smiled. There it was. The Bruce Wayne charm. The warmth didn’t touch his eyes: he looked like a wolf grinning, tail tucked low while creeping closer, tensed to spring, and Clark wondered why Julia had fallen for it. 

“So what next?” Clark asked, and tried to sound keen, not wary. “For Remembrance and Bruce Wayne?” 

“I thought we might as well sit back and see which candidate really, really wants $150 million dollars,” Bruce admitted, taking a sip of his whisky. “And then vote over whose Outraged Speech is the most entertaining.” 

“Which candidate would you prefer?” 

“That’s a secret. I like politicians in general. They tend to be useful and remember where the money comes from. That’s why I donate to everyone’s campaign,” Bruce shrugged. “It’s how you buy favours and get things done.” 

“Money talks,” Clark agreed, uncomfortable all over again. “Wayne Enterprises is a major shareholder in Arkham Asylum. Do you have any comment on the recent Amnesty International report about human rights violations on its grounds?” 

“Straight to the jugular. That’s interesting,” Bruce seemed amused rather than annoyed. “It’s an ongoing legal matter, so, no comment. My turn. What’s it like living in the same city as an extraterrestrial?” 

“Not bad when you’re a reporter.” Bruce was setting down his glass, slinking over, and Clark had to fight the instinct to retreat. 

“Always something newsworthy in the vicinity of a force of nature, hm?” Bruce’s eyes were gleaming again, as though he was silently laughing at some ugly joke that only he could see. 

“He’s not that bad,” Clark mumbled, embarrassed to be defending himself. “He’s saved people.”

“What’s the score… a couple hundred against five thousand?” 

“He was trying to stop another extraterrestrial from causing global extinction,” Clark said, openly defensive now, despite himself. Bruce chuckled and shook his head, even as he caught his fingers around Clark’s tie, hooking him over: Clark allowed himself to be led, swallowing hard. He should excuse himself now, he knew that much. This wasn’t right - it was worse, a wrong papered on top of a wrong. But he let himself get tugged closer, until their lips were inches away; he could smell Bruce’s aftershave, subtle, spicy. 

“People who can fly rings around the world aren’t spoiled for choice on battlegrounds,” Bruce murmured, and closed the gap, kissing Clark hard on the mouth. They stumbled towards the stairs, Bruce’s tie tossed in the direction of the kitchen counter, his shoes toed off at the base of the stairs, Clark’s jacket left draped over the rail. Clark's glad that he hadn't worn the suit today under his clothes. Bruce let out a low, purring sound of appreciation as he rubbed his palms over the arch of Clark’s shoulders, stroking down his spine to knead his ass; distantly, Clark was aware that he was making a choked keening sound against Bruce’s neck, one shoe kicked off at the top of the stairs, the next at the foot of the bed. 

They tumbled onto the bed, Bruce scrambling on top, Clark fighting the urge to correct gravity’s pull, flailing. He lay passive as Bruce dug his fingertips into his shirt, nosing shy and fumbled kisses in response to the savage edge of Bruce’s hunger. There was bitterness to the harsh moan that Bruce pressed against him, the vicious catch of Bruce’s teeth against Clark’s lip; the sour taste of anger, acrid with self-loathing. Bruce was chuckling again in low and strangled gasps that Clark tried ineffectively to soothe away with open-mouthed kisses, elegant fingers twisting and untwisting against Clark’s collar, forming fists that pressed in subtle pulses against Clark’s jaw and neck. This was nothing like the tender nervous lovemaking that Clark was used to with Lois. Like the press conference before, Clark felt punched adrift, struck dazed by a breed of violence that he could not see. 

“What’s the matter?” Bruce growled, his breath hot against Clark’s cheek, dank with whisky, and for a moment Clark almost thought that Bruce’s teeth would scrape against the cheekbones he had so admired, sink in. 

“I’ve never,” Clark managed to gasp. Talking felt like trying to squeeze the words through a tightening filter. “With a man before, never.” 

“Ah.” Bruce uncurled, up onto his knees, lip caught in his teeth, and even his amusement now had a thread of viciousness to it. “Second thoughts?” He was warm against Clark’s belly, his knees pressed against Clark’s ribs. 

“Not really,” Clark admitted. The regret he felt had nothing to do with Bruce, not personally. “Just… Sorry. I’m probably boring you?” 

“Hah!” Bruce sat back, and let out a low and rumbling sound as he rubbed back against the insistent press of Clark’s arousal. Gods. When _had_ he gotten hard? Against the warmth of Bruce’s ass, so _close_ , he ached. Lust had never been agonising before: it was the first time Clark had ever felt pain like this, and it was utterly disorienting. His invulnerable skin had made him largely impervious in his brawl with Zod. He felt no physical pain when Bruce bit him again, palms curved against Clark’s cheeks, but lust - this strain of lust was new, like an infection, burning him up. His hands fluttered up over Bruce’s arms, then flattened down on the bed, wary of his strength. Bruce was chuckling again, unbuttoning Clark’s shirt, mouth buried now against Clark’s throat. 

“Gorgeous,” Bruce murmured, pulling back, reddened lip caught in his teeth again, hard enough to fleck his own flesh with blood. He was licking it off his own mouth as he rolled his hips back against the arch of Clark’s cock, baring stained teeth as Clark reached awkwardly for the buttons on his shirt. “Hmm, no,” Bruce pushed Clark’s hands away, and started to work on Clark’s belt before Clark could comment. 

They kissed in a nest of discarded clothes, Bruce’s shirt stuck to his skin by sweat. Beneath it, under Clark’s tentative touch, there was only hard and supple muscle. Bruce spat on his palm, got his hand between them, his groans growing quiet, all stuttered uneven breaths, his eyes turned away as they rubbed together in a broken rhythm, out of synch. Satiation felt dirty, worsened by the way Bruce started to chuckle again as he swiped his fingers through their spend, the sounds spat through gritted teeth. Clark stared at the ceiling, waiting for his own breathing to get under control, and heard his voice hitch into a whine as Bruce rubbed a surprisingly roughened palm up from the base of his cock to the sensitive tip. It hurt, brilliantly. 

Somehow Clark ended up with Bruce pinned to the bed beneath him, pressing Bruce’s wrists to the bed, buried under soft pillows. Bruce growled and squirmed and bit as Clark kissed him with a stubborn and determined tenderness, soiled hands clenching and unclenching, his body stiff, sweat and fluids tacky between them. Soon Bruce subsided into a furious silence, though he ground his soft cock up against Clark’s stiffening flesh, his heels braced on the bed. When he started to kiss Clark back, Clark let him go, and Bruce groped over at the side table, fumbling blindly at the drawer. 

When Clark tried to lean back for a look, Bruce’s free hand clenched tight over his hair, and he stayed, bracing his weight over his elbows. A condom packet was fumbled on the bed, and Bruce was squeezing lube on shaky fingers that slipped down, cold against Clark’s hip before pushing further down. Bruce grunted as he stretched himself, his eyes distant, as though concentrating on some faraway calculus, his mouth twisted in a hard curl like the edge of a hyena’s snarl, softening reluctantly under the insistent press of Clark’s mouth. 

When Clark pushed carefully into Bruce, Bruce was silent. His heel dug into the small of Clark’s back, urging him on, but Clark ignored it, awed by the tight clench of Bruce’s body around his cock, again blindsided by the urgent agony of his own lust. The condom felt like too little and too much all at once, too tight. Surely he was hurting Bruce like this. A pained noise, and Clark was pulling back, but Bruce snarled and sank his fingers into the meat of Clark’s back, hissing, “Don’t you _dare_ , don’t you _fucking_ -“ and Clark gave in, bowed his head, pushed deeper. Balls deep and Bruce was squirming against him, teeth clenched. 

“Is this good?” Clark asked doubtfully, and Bruce laughed and shook his head, digging his fingers around the back of Clark’s neck. 

“I’ll tell you when you can move,” Bruce said curtly instead, and stiffened as Clark kissed his shoulders, brushing his lips up against his neck to his jaw. Clark waited for a while, unsure, but when Bruce was silent, Clark eventually brushed his hand down hesitantly, between their bellies. Bruce flinched as Clark’s knuckles brushed up against his soft cock. “Don’t bother.”

“You’re not enjoying this.” 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’m probably ten years older than you are. I’m not _going_ to get hard again for a while. Besides, I don’t need to come to enjoy this.”

“Are you?” Clark pressed, and Bruce glared at him, narrow-eyed, suspicious. “Enjoying this?”

“What is this, an interview?” Bruce snapped. “We’re both kinda busy now, aren’t we? You can move now, by the way. And fucking _shut up_.” 

Clark gave in, though not all the way. As much as Bruce growled and kicked him pointedly in the back, Clark kept it slow, rocking into the barely yielding clench of Bruce’s body, hiding his own agony against the tense line of Bruce’s jaw. He felt lightheaded, his cock already pulsing, insistent. Clark didn’t really understand why. Sex with Lois had been sweet and fulfilling and gentle. This was like drowning in the other end of the spectrum, as though he and Bruce were debasing each other. And yet - and yet when Bruce bit out a reluctant, hungry gasp, when he tipped up his hips, to take Clark deeper, Clark felt a sudden rush of savage triumph that was just as disorienting as pain. Satiation, when it came, was sudden and unwelcome, and Clark couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.

He could feel Bruce watching him steadily as he awkwardly got them both cleaned up, with towels from the bathroom, the condom tied off and disposed of. Clark was abruptly aware that he had probably betrayed himself, maybe, even though his glasses had stayed on. His skin had no bruises on it, no scratches. The bedroom was dimly lit, from the lights that had flicked on before in the living room below, but- 

“Come here,” Bruce patted the bed beside him, and he seemed sharply amused again. “Why the hell are you so spooked?” 

Warily, Clark obeyed, lying on his flank. He should excuse himself now, somehow. Leave. “Just… well uhm. New experiences.” 

Bruce sniffed. “Now you sound like a goddamned travel ad.” He had rolled onto his back, his hands pressed over his chest. There was something uncomfortably funereal about his stillness. “Sleep, shower, whatever you want. I’ve got an early flight back to Gotham.” 

“I can go.”

“If you want.” Bruce sounded indifferent. “You’re new at this. All this work and you haven’t even asked me for a soundbite.” 

“I’ve never… actually slept with a, well-“

“No? Hell. You _are_ new at this.”

“But, well, if you’re in the mood,” Clark cast about helplessly for a question, wondering if he was helping or worsening the situation. “So uh, about the Batman.” 

“What about him?” Now Bruce sounded bored. 

“He hasn’t surfaced since the Bane matter. Do you think he-“ 

“Died? Yeah, probably. A lot of people did,” Bruce said pensively. “Or maybe he realized that doing what he did wasn’t making the faintest bit of real difference. Compared to, say, funding the police, providing them with proper gear and training, funding schools, particularly in disadvantaged neighborhoods, providing affordable housing and available jobs…” Bruce trailed off, with a dismissive gesture.

“So, everything that _you’ve_ been doing,” Clark tried to smile. 

“Not me, Wayne Enterprises. I set aside a percentage of the profits, a committee decides where they go to. Over time, yes, the percentage has increased. A city that’s safe and productive is good for business.” 

“Helped along by Gotham’s strict gun control laws?”

“We’ve got a background check system in place in Gotham… we have the tightest gun control laws in the USA, sure. But compared to the rest of the developed world? It’s still nowhere near enough.” Bruce shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. And gun control advocates lost when Sandy Hook happened and nothing really fucking changed afterwards.” 

“That’s a… hopeless way of looking at it.” 

“I grew more cynical with age. Call it a prolonged exposure to reality.” 

“Is Remembrance about cynicism, then?”

Bruce eyed him again, his handsome face uncomfortably blank. “Have you heard of Liu Cixin?”

“Uh… no.” 

“Famous science fiction writer in China. His book, ‘The Dark Forest’, was just translated into English - you should read it. Not to spoiler the plot, but he imagined a universe like a dark forest. Populated by sentient races, some of them far more advanced than humanity, hunting the wide reaches of space. Sometimes, they might become aware of another sentient civilisation. Some might turn away. Others, however, would shoot first. Take out a threat before it becomes a threat.” 

“Is that how you see Superman? A threat?” 

“I think that nickname of his is a misnomer. He’s not human at all.” Bruce turned away, to stare back up at the ceiling. “But we’re lucky. So far as I know from my sources, he’s seemingly invulnerable, strong, has something called ‘heat vision’, and can fly. Something about gravitational forces, maybe. That’s frightening, sure. But he isn’t, apparently, considerably mentally advanced, compared to humanity. That was Neil deGrasse Tyson’s fear, did you know? That we’d someday meet a sentient species, to whom the smartest of our species would be only like toddlers to theirs.” 

Clark puzzled that over. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t. 

“If Superman’s just more or less an enhanced human, then he can be contained.” 

“Is that what all that money is for?”

“Think of it as an experiment. On one hand, humanity. Should we keep treating this Superman like a force of nature, beyond human accountability? On the other hand, the alien. Does _he_ feel that he’s not accountable to humanity? They’re both questions I’d like answered. So. Here we are.” 

“I hope you get your answers,” Clark said quietly, blinking away sudden dizziness. Yes. He’d have to think about that himself. 

“I usually do,” Bruce retorted evenly. “Now, if you don’t mind. I'm going to sleep. Early flight.” 

“Yes. Uh. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” In the dim light, framed against a glass wall that overlooked Metropolis, Bruce smiled a lupine smile. “I would do it again anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent  
> \--  
> Death toll in Man of Steel: 5,000 people http://comicbook.com/blog/2013/11/09/man-of-steels-death-total-was-around-5000-people-according-to-director-zack-snyder/ 
> 
> Does Bruce know who Clark is in this fic? Probably.  
> 1\. Seriously, Clark’s disguise is him wearing spectacles  
> 2\. Bruce is kinda obsessive about his targets so he’s probably studied every available image of Superman out there


End file.
